


Re / Bound

by Polly_Lynn



Category: Castle
Genre: Angry Sex, Angst, Doggy Style, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Light BDSM, Makeup Sex, Married Couple, Mirror Sex, Mirrors, Reconciliation, Reconciliation Sex, Rough Sex, Scars, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 00:21:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7485972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s . . . playful when he’s the one on top. He’s playful, even when he’s bending her to his will. Stilling her body and stopping her mouth. Even when he’s holding what she wants just out of reach—driving her mad and getting off on it—he’s playful.</p><p>It’s no different tonight. While they’re still in the living room, at least. There’s something dark in his tone.(You do realize I’m going to have to punish you first.) Something unmistakable in the grip he has on her fingers as he tugs her into the bedroom, but it’s playful.</p><p>Right up until it isn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Re / Bound

**Author's Note:**

> The umpteenth "naked punishment" fic. A Mr. & Mrs. Castle post-ep.

It’s . . . playful when he’s the one on top. _He’s_ playful, even when he’s bending her to his will. Stilling her body and stopping her mouth. Even when he’s holding what she wants just out of reach—driving her mad and getting off on it—he’s playful.  
  
It’s no different tonight. While they’re still in the living room, at least. There’s something dark in his tone. _(You do realize I’m going to have to punish you first.)_ Something unmistakable in the grip he has on her fingers as he tugs her into the bedroom, but it’s playful.  
  
Right up until it isn’t.  
  
She’s on the edge of the bed. She’s tearing the blouse over her head. Tangled in it, because she can’t be bothered to work the zipper all the way down. Because the narrow belt manages to hook at her elbow. She’s tangled up and laughing, and then she isn’t.  
  
“Get up.” He’s standing over her. Looming, and his face is hard. Illegible to her for very nearly the first time.  
  
“I’m stuck.”  
  
She peers up at him through the half-gaping neckline, a half-grin still dancing at the corner of her mouth, even as her heart rate kicks into high gear. Even as she catches up to the fact that everything has changed. Everything.    
  
He jerks both arms over her head. Jerks the blouse free of her body in one violent movement.  
  
“Get up,” he says again, and when she hesitates not quite long enough to breath in, his fingers are suddenly at her jaw. Suddenly jerking her chin up, and there’s nothing playful in it. “Now, Beckett. Off the bed.”  
  
He shifts his grip to the back of her head. He hauls her up. Drags her to the closet door. To the full-length mirror, and she almost cries out in surprise. She hardly recognizes either one of them. The man with one fist knotted in her hair. The woman with goosebumps rising on her skin, straining almost on tip toe to stand tall. To comply.  
  
She hardly recognizes anything about this, but how could she? How could she, when it’s all just coming into being, this entirely new version of the world. Of them.    
  
“Look.” He gives her hair a vicious tug to bring her gaze straight ahead. Doubles her left arm behind her and traps it between their two bodies.“What is this?”  
  
“This?” Her voice is faint. She looks for his eyes in the mirror, but they're downcast. They’re roaming wildly over her body like it’s a wholly unfamiliar landscape. Over pale skin interrupted by the dark fabric of her bra. The horizontal of her close-fitting pants. “I don’t . . . “  
  
“This.” He knocks her hip forward. The move makes her stagger. Makes her breath catch in something like fear as his palm comes roughly to her left side. To the no-man’s land between the crest of her hip and the sweep of her rib cage. To the scar he’s seen only once. He spreads his fingers wide, framing it. “Tell me what this is.”  
  
“You know,” she bites out, half expecting tears to clog her throat when she remembers his lips pressed to it not so long ago. His head bowed and the brutal, unnecessary silence between them the night of their anniversary. The night after. She half expects tears, but there are none. There’s only the pounding of her heart and the hummingbird rise and fall of her ribs. There’s only want. “You know what it is.”  
  
He wrenches his hand free of her hair. Spins her around to face him as he tears at the clasp of her bra and claws the straps down her arms. His mouth drops between her breasts and opens wide. His tongue circles the puckered edge of the scar there. He sucks at her skin, hard and greedy, using his teeth. She does cry out then, arms limp at her sides as she feels the blood already rising to the surface of her skin, purple and black and blue, already spreading.  
  
She cries out, but he’s moving on. Down the side of her body. Sharp nips, anything but playful, all along the precise, deliberate arc of the incision. Rough fingers find the waistband of her pants.  
  
“Off,” he snarls.  
  
He jerks at the fabric. She moans, dazed at the unexpected jolt to her clit. She feels strange. Out of her body and not steady on her feet in the least. Her hands come up splay against his chest, but he’s not having it. He circles her wrists tightly and whirls her around to face the mirror again.  
  
“Off. Now. All of it.”  
  
He shoves her hands downward. His hips force her palms toward waistband and button and zipper. Awkward, short-lived contact and even so, it delivers another jolt between her legs that leaves her jaw dropping open. Her spine going soft and her breath coming in short, ragged bursts.  
  
“Now.” His face is a cool blank, unnerving and at odds with the rest of his body. With the heat coming off him in waves and his cock pressing against her. He catches her eye in the glass. Reads her like a book and takes away the comfort of it. Direct evidence that he’s as close to undone as she is.  He steps back from her body. Drops her hands and opens up space between them. “I’ll cut them off you.”  
  
He says it almost conversationally. He glances around the room. A casual sweep for something to improvise with, but she’s finally in motion. She’s finally kicking away her shoes. Trembling as she plucks and tugs gracelessly at the clinging material.  
  
He catches her when she falls forward with one foot trapped. A strong arm around her midsection as she stumbles almost into the mirror and out of the tangle of garments once and for all. Her palms hit the glass, and with her head bowed, with the light just so and the world entirely new, she sees nothing but scars. She goes limp, but he sets her on her feet. He circles her waist tight enough that it’s hard to breathe. Tight enough to press her own dark thoughts up and out of her.  
  
“My belt,” he says in her ear. “Take it off.”  She jerks back against him in surprise, but he’s turning her body. Brooking no argument as he brings her hands to the buckle. “Don’t make me tell you again.”    
  
“No,” she says, unsure what she means by it, given that her trembling hands have already set to work. “No.” She works her fingers under the tongue and the strap is free.  
  
“No?“ He sounds almost amused. Almost. He traps her hands together in one of his and raises them high between their bodies. He yanks at the buckle end, pulling the belt free of its loops in one long hiss. “You don’t get a say right now, understand?”  
  
“Understand,” she echoes as her stomach lurches. As her skin burns and she feels a gush of wet heat between her legs.  
  
“Do you?” He opens his fingers, and her hands fall away. He doubles the belt with one hand and pulls the loop taut with an ear splitting crack. “Do you know the rules, Beckett?”  
  
There’s the faintest tremor in his voice, even though his body is a rigid line. Even though he’s angry to the core, when he says her name, there’s the faintest tremor. It nearly breaks her. Not his anger. Not the marks blooming on her skin or the way he’s stripped her bare. It’s the faintest tremor, and she knows then how badly frayed the trust between them really is.  
  
“I know the rules,” she says quietly. “I do.”  
  
He kisses her. For the first time since the living room. Since everything changed, and she’s grateful even though it’s vicious. Even though he’s bending her spine to the point of breaking. Pulling her hair and using his height and weight against her. She’s grateful that he’s good with his hands. Good with knots and grateful for the bite of leather at her wrists now as he marches her right back to the mirror. She's grateful that he believes her.  
  
“Look.” He flips a nearby switch, and there's light. Too much sudden light, but he kicks the closet door open wider as he frames her body from behind with is own. “Eyes on this.” He jerks at the knotted belt hard enough to pull her fists down and her shoulders back. Hard enough to make her muscles burn with the odd angle, though he eases the tension the very second she complies. The very second her eyes drop to the ugly, jagged line. “Tell me what it is.”  
  
“A scar,” she says faintly. The palm of his hand slams into her ass. Heat and electricity radiate out from the spot. An already-red imprint that drives her higher.  
  
“What. Is. It?” he growls in her ear.  
  
“Another. Fucking. Scar,” she says through her teeth. It’ll cost her. The defiance of that punctuation, but she wants it. She knows the rules.    
  
He hauls up on the belt this time, hard enough to make her elbows bend. To fold her at the waist and bring her face close to the glass. His hand rains down on her skin. Hip and ass and the backs of her thighs until he pulls her upright again. His arm folds across her chest. His thumb brushes the bullet hole before his fingers close around one nipple.  
  
“I’m not playing, Beckett,” he says like she doesn’t know. Like the pinpoint agony of his fingertips and the blaze of her skin aren’t proof enough. “Tell me what it is.”  
  
“A scar.” It’s just her lips moving this time. Her eyes blur with wholly unexpected tears, but she finds her voice. “Like the others.”  
  
“No.”  
  
It rings out. A single, icy word and the force of his palm again. He roughly turns her sideways. He drags a fingertip over the terrible, perfect trajectory of the surgical scar.   
  
“ _Not_ like this.” He digs into her hip and turns her. Slams her back against his chest again. He fans his fingers over her breast. Gives it a cruel squeeze that deepens the color in the marks his teeth left behind and teases the stippled skin of the bullet hole. “Not like _this._ ”  
  
He knocks his knee into the back of hers, making it buckle. Making her stumble until the new scar is almost pressed to the glass.  
  
“Sloppy,” he hisses. He traces the jagged length. “Ugly work." There's a tremor in his voice again. Faint, but he recovers. A powerful shudder from head to toe, and then he's back in control. He's meeting her eyes and giving her a twisted smile in the mirror. "Why is that, Beckett?”  
  
"Myself." It's all she can get out. Her chest is tight with more than the heavy weight of his arm around her. More than bracing for the next move he'll make, whatever it is. "Did it myself."  
  
"Why?" His hand comes down on the front of her thigh this time. A glancing blow that he follows up with something more forceful. Again and again and again. "Why yourself?"  
  
"No one else," she wails. "There was no one else."  
  
"Why?" he demands. His breath is hot on her neck. Her shoulder. His teeth sharp. His fingers curl into her ribs and his eyes flash wild in the glass. "Why was there no one else?"  
  
"Because I'm broken." Her body is giving way now. Pain and urgency crashing into one another, and they're on their knees together. "Because it's easier that way."  
  
"Easier?" His hands are gone from her body. She sees him behind her, eyes downcast again. She sees him looming close, but his hands are gone, and she's weeping. "Jesus, Beckett, stop _fighting_ me."  
  
Her head snaps up at that. She works it out. That he has her by one wrist. That he's working at the knot of the belt and she's flailing wildly. Twisting and falling forward in search of him, when his hands are already there.  
  
"Easier," he says again when he's finally freed her. "Fuck . . . Kate." He pushes weakly at her hands as she tears at his fly. As she urges him to kneel up.  
  
"Stop fighting _me,_ " she snaps. It's a reflex. It's their everyday dynamic, but everything's different here and now. The world is different.  
  
"Never." He surges up, whatever sorrow there is in him burning up in an instant. He has her by the arms. Has her on hands and knees with her hair spilling around her face. He slams into her from behind. Drives her forward so that her own wide eyes in the mirror are all she can see. "Do you fucking understand?" He draws himself backward. His voice drops so low she can only feel the words travel along her spine as he buries himself deep again and again. "I will never stop fighting."  
  
"Look," he chokes out as he comes on the next stroke or the next or the next. She's long since lost count. For her own part, she's long since lost track of what's pain and what's satisfaction. It's all release.  
  
"Look," he says again. He pulls her upright with one arm around her breasts and a fist planted on her thigh. He leans her body against his and lets his hand drop to her ribs. He moves gently within her, careful to keep the connection of their bodies intact.  
  
"No more." He covers the scar with his palm. Obliterates it from view. "Not alone." He buries his face against her neck. She feels his body convulse. A single sob as he hides his eyes. "Do you understand?"  
  
She eases herself upward. Sighs and twists around to kiss him as he slips free. She turns, clumsy and weak and not quite half in his lap. His jeans chafe her skin. The fabric of his shirt coarse against the tender places he's left behind.  
  
"I do." She wraps herself around him, pushing through the ache, though it's not easy. "I understand."

**Author's Note:**

> I was trying to write Season 1 fluff, and . . .


End file.
